


An Empty Letter for Nobody

by Blackforestfire



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestors, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M, Minor Character Death, Revolution, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:39:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackforestfire/pseuds/Blackforestfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Sufferer is executed his cult turns to another, a new leader who they hope will lead them in the ashes of His dream. But The Summoner is tired of his followers dying in droves around him and secretly loathes his historical footnote status in wake of sacrifice of the Sufferer. So, in a fit of despair, The Summoner goes to finish this once and for all. Unexpectedly, someone intervenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_My sincerest regrets to…_

To who? Who were you even writing this fucking letter to anyway? Your hand hovers over the paper and a growl builds in your chest. You’re so frustrated, so empty, so fed up with everything.

Your matesprit was using you to get back at an old enemy, you were her path of revenge. When you found out, you put your lance through her body.

You have been fighting this war for too long, and it wasn’t really your war to begin with. It was always His. His, with the bright red blood and words like fire that brought alive the secret yearnings of all the warm bloods, yourself included.

Your wings flutter in agitation as you stare blankly at the paper. Maybe you should write this just for yourself. Sort out the last of the cobwebs in your mind just so you can have a moment of peace.

_I don’t regret a fucking thing._

But you do. You regret picking up your lance and calling together all the low bloods under _His_ name. You regret accepting the title they gave you; Summoner. Summoner of what? What the hell did that mean? Did they think they were being clever with that stupid jibe at your psychic powers?

_I’m sick and tired of all of this crap. This is not my war._

But it is your war. You are one of them. You are a fellow low blood, a shit blood, fighting against the tyranny of cold hearted bastards with ice in their veins.

_I hate all of you. Myself the most. I’m sorry._

You are sorry. You are sorry you couldn’t give them what they wanted, sorry you couldn’t do what even _He_ couldn’t. You’d done your fair share, and you knew your name would be remembered. It would be mentioned as a footnote, right after they finished describing _His_ Last Sermon. Would they mention this note? Should you try and make it more formal? Or true?

_I don’t want to do this anymore. I just want to sleep._

You are so tired…

_Goodbye and good riddance._

Never let it be said that you were a kind, humble little shit blood.

You stand and let your wings unfurl, stretching them out and then moving numbly to your door. You know where you need to go to complete this. The letter remains behind you. Nobody will check your hive when you’re gone.

You leave with your lance and a hollow heart.

\---

Raids are not uncommon during wartime. You fly over the land and look for smoke and listen for screams. The wind is rushing past your body and you think that if you had to miss anything once you were dead, flying would be it.

Smoke curls to the sky like the fingers of a victim, and you spot it automatically. You angle your wings and sweep off towards it. Nothing feels real as you land outside the village currently being attacked.

Trolls scream and run from the hoard of cold bloods washing through like a wave. Some stand and fight, and are quickly torn to pieces. Some resistance is being put up though, and you hear someone screech your name in relief. They think you are here to save them.

You draw your lance and dart into the fray.

Trolls instantly gravitate to you to fight for you and against you. You know how you look; an impressive figure looming out over all the low bloods, here to lead them to victory against the hated oppressors. With your long horns and massive wings you appear as an intimidating and hopeful figure.

You tell the low bloods to run.

They look at you as you step forward and knock a blue blood off her feet and into a charging seadweller.

“ _Go,_ ” you order, not wanting any more innocents to die. Despite everything, you do care about that.

Their grateful smiles don’t touch you as they brush your arm and wish you luck, offering hurried blessings from _Him_ , and then flee. Most of them will make it, though the ground is slick with blood.

It’s just you against dozens.

They only hesitate marginally when you flare your wings and roar, daring them all at once to come and take you down. They’re not stupid. They know who you are.

They swarm you from all sides.

The smart thing to do would be to fly upwards at the last minute and let them crash into each other and hopefully kill one another. But their deaths aren’t what you want right now. So you let them come, stand your ground, and then wield your lance like a staff.

You break arms, legs, kill many, because despite everything you sure as hell aren’t going down without a fight.

Laughter explodes out around you and you curse as you realize there are juggalos mixed in this group. Sick, twisted clown fucks.

Your lance shoves through a seadweller and the look of pure surprise on his face makes you feel even more exhausted.

Then pain explodes on your left shoulder and you go down screaming. Someone had hit you with something, you don’t know what, but the pain went down to your wing-joint and _oh god it hurt yes good more pain please I want to feel something._

You snarl, lips warping into a smile that makes those nearest to you back up in alarm. You lunge forward and drive your lance deep into another troll, only to have it wrenched from your hands as they fall backwards. Now you're unarmed.

One troll rushes forward, and before you can stop yourself you leap on them and sink your teeth into their neck. They scream so loud and brokenly that you howl along with them, seized up by pure feral instinct. Blood is everywhere and pain is all over, they’re raking you with their claws as you rip out their throat with your teeth.

More pain from behind you, someone is yelling and trolls are pulling you down and stabbing, kicking, hitting you so hard.

Everything is fuzzing out and your mouth tastes like cold slime. It hurts, it hurts so badly but you’re finally feeling something after all this time. You leer at them and then scream as someone drives a spear into your leg.

Then they’re gone, and someone new is looming over you.

It’s getting too dark to see, but you growl anyway and bare your teeth.

They laugh, and then it all goes black.

\---

_Did it work? Am I dead? Please let me be dead._

You slowly open your eyes and groan, more out of sheer annoyance for still being alive than the fact that your body feels like it’s been a bark-beast’s chew toy.

“Looks like the mutant shit blood is coming around! Haha, fucking miracle, what did I say?”

You pause. That is not a voice you know, and it sure as hell doesn’t make you feel very good. You open your eyes wider and blink, things starting to swarm into shapes and colors. You in a…room? A bedroom? Who’s bedroom? Oh crap that’s a lot of purple…

“I’m over here, motherfucker,” the voice says with dry amusement.

You turn your head and see one of the fucking scariest trolls ever sitting beside you and grinning like you just said the funniest fucking joke ever and he’s waiting for the punchline.

You stare at him, taking in the impossibly tall curved horns, wild hair, and meticulous face paint. Oh for the love of the Sufferer— _HAH!—_ you had to be captured by a fucking juggalo? And not just any juggalo. The Grand Highblood.

“I’m…not dead,” you say, to clarify your worst fear.

The grin got bigger, “Gave it your best fucking shot, shit blood, but no.”

You snarl weakly, “Fuck you! I—ow—fuck!” You try to sit up and strangle him, and then maybe yourself, before he’s pushing you down and chiding you mockingly.

“Now now motherfucker, IS THAT ANYWAY TO THANK ME FOR SAVING YOUR WORTHLESS HIDE?”

The rise in his voice doesn’t even make you flinch, you just feel a surge of hatred, “What the FUCK made you think I wanted to be saved? You _stupid clown!_ ”

He looks a little surprised that you’re not tripping over yourself to thank him, “Motherfucker, your arm was just above severed from your GOD DAMN BODY. Why in the fuck would you want that?”

You bare your teeth at him, “None of your fucking business you horn-honking freak!”

The Grand Highblood only laughs which just makes you even angrier.

“I—oh fuck you!” You do manage to sit up this time and find that your injuries are, for the most part, bearable. Your left arm hurts like a bitch and you don’t have all your feeling in your left hand anymore, but everything has been stitched up nice and clean.

His grin turns into a lecherous sneer, “Let’s get some shit straight, motherfucker. You and your miraculous wings are gonna get pinned above the alter of my god damn church for all to laugh at unless you get your shit together.”

But you don’t care. You couldn’t give less of a fuck if you tried.

Instead you launch yourself at him, snarling obscenities that would have made your lusus wash your mouth out.

He clearly wasn’t expecting such a god awfully stupid move because you hit him square in the chest and send the two of you back on the floor in a tangle of limbs and swears.

He is _strong_ but you are mad as hell. He took away your death and _healed_ you just so he could have your fucking mutation for his god awful clown church. You knew he didn’t spare you for sentiment—you are (were?) the leader to the uprising, you are his greatest enemy. You are a political prisoner, and you are not going to put up with this bullshit.

But you don’t try to run. You stay on top of him, clawing at his face and spitting hell fire as he snarls back at you and hits all your wounds to try and subdue you.

You just get angrier. Everything is anger and fire and rage and you want him _dead_ but not really. This thought confuses you long enough for him to hit you on the base of one of your horns and make you tumble off in shock.

Now he’s on top of you, teeth snapping at your throat as you buck wildly, trying to get him off so you can wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze the life out of him.

Your hands find his grub scars and you dig your nails into them, earning a guttural groan that pierces through the thick fog in your mind. You suddenly attack him with a different kind of vigor, intent on getting back on top of the bastard who _dared_ to save your life.

He’s laughing in a way that makes your blood electrify and his hands are on your horns again. He slams your head to the ground and you gasp, seeing stars. He’s holding you right at the base of them, sending thick, hot signals to your mind and making you squirm underneath him and groan. It’s dizzying and you can’t think straight. His fingers are rubbing your horn bed and you chirr deep in your throat, unable to stop it.

He stops laughing when you rake your claws across his face.

He jerks back with a curse and you surge upwards after him, slamming him against the wall in an awkwardly kneeling position. Your mouth finds his neck and you have a brief flash of what it felt like to bite out another trolls throat. Your wings flutter and you move to his shoulder instead, biting down until he swears and punches your leg were someone stabbed you.

You yelp and bite down harder, rubbing your hips against his and smirking when he groans. Then it’s your turn to groan when his fingers find the base of your wings and grabs them. You keen and arch up, mouth open in shock. You’ve never been able to reach back there, so you had no idea that this was a thing. But _oh was it_.

He knew he had you. You were once again pressed down on the floor, his cold hands tearing at your clothes as you shredded his right off him in return. Your mind felt bright and sharp like a new blade and he was the whetstone that made sure you didn’t fucking miss a second of it.

You both are dripping when everything is finally removed, and he doesn’t seem to mind this time when you roll the two of you over so you can claw and bite at him more thoroughly. Your wings flare out behind you and he growls appreciatively, dragging his claws over your hips and baring his fangs at you in a challenge.

You can feel his bulge against your thigh and you don’t hesitate to shift farther up so it can find the slick, hot entrance of your nook.

He snarls eagerly as it pushes inside you all at once, and you bitch at how cold he is which only makes him laugh deep in his chest.

You wrap your hand around your bulge and fuck yourself on him, eyes bright with hatred as he leers up at you mockingly.

Then his hands are on your hips and he’s got his bulge as deep in your nook as possible and you’re swearing and moaning and _oh god please more_.

You must’ve said it aloud because he make a noise that goes straight to your bulge as his own begins to writhe and move inside of you. It rubs against something and you see white, your body jerking and your throat raw from screaming.

Your free hand is clawing bloody purple lines down his chest which only makes him moan louder, the sick bastard, but oh when he does it to you, you can understand the appeal.

You don’t realize you’ve leaned over him before you notice you’re resting on your forearms on either side of his head while his bulge thrashes around inside of you and making you cry out pleasurably. He brings you closer and suddenly you’re kissing him and oh god he’s got a hand on your bulge.

You snarl and growl against his lips but you kiss him with all the hatred and bitterness you have inside of you. He responds in kind, and it’s becoming too much too fast and you _know_ he knows because he only goes faster and harder and _oh fuck you’re getting close!_

He finishes first, sending a gush of cold genetic material into your nook which makes you shudder almost violently, but then he gives your bulge a squeeze and slides two fingers into your already full nook and you scream as you come.

When your mind finally returns back to Alternia he’s got a shit eating smile so wide it makes you snarl weakly at him in complaint.

“I didn’t realize a brother wanted to get his pitch on _that badly_ ,” he purrs, and you flush indignantly.

“It’s your fucking fault for saving me, you stupid clown,” you grumble, shifting off of him and then hissing as he pulls you back against his cold body.

“Ain’t none of that unfunny shit happening again,” he murmurs to you, voice soft and deadly, “you gonna kill yourself, you better fucking do it in a way that makes the messiahs laugh all the way back to their dark carnival, got it?”

You look at him in shock. He saved your life, had a pitch-fling with you, and now is lecturing you on suicide? What the ever loving fuck?

“Who _are_ you?” You sputter, and then make a very mortified sound as he rolls over and crushes you underneath his body. You swear and hit him a few times, but give up once you realize he isn’t planning on moving anywhere.

“You can call me Makara, I guess,” he grumbles, like it’s a big personal favor and he’s gone out of his way to tell you that.

You scoff but don’t say anything else for the time being because for the first time in sweeps, your blood is boiling but your mind is at peace.

_Fuck_ this clown.


	2. Chapter 2

When you wake up the damn clown has rolled off you. Unfortunately, he’s rolled right onto your left wing. The bastard is still asleep and you’re both still naked and sticky with the remnants of last night’s pitch-fling.

You growl and slowly ease your wing out, ignoring the painful throb your shoulder gives before you’re finally free. You get up and stretch your wings out, fluttering them to make sure there wasn’t any damage from last night.

You glance around the room and scowl before beginning to rummage through drawers. As much as you hate the bastard, you are _not_ flying butt naked back to your hive. You find a large black t-shirt with his symbol on it and quickly turn it inside out before pulling it on. It’s large and comes down past your hips, but otherwise fits relatively well. You aren’t going to even mention the struggle that took place trying to get it on.

You find a pair of pants with circles painted on them and you spend a few minutes lecturing the sleeping clown quietly about his wardrobe choices.

You open up the large double door windows near his bed and eagerly leap out into the cool pre-dawn air. You’re going to have to fly fast, but the challenge makes a grin curl on your lips.

Bring it.

Your wings beat quickly above you, shooting you forward like you’ve been ejected from a cannon. You don’t remember the last time you flew as fast as you can, and you can’t help whooping and cheering like a wriggler as you swoop and soar through the sky. The sun had just begun to rise when you arrive back at your home.

It’s exactly how you left it, and you don’t pay attention to the sad little piece of paper sitting on your desk as you quickly wrestle off the clown clothes.

You…don’t throw them away.

They end up a ball in the corner of the room as you go to shower and sleep properly.

As you drift to sleep, your mind begins to draft out possible plans for helping along the revolution. You have generals under your command who would be over-ecstatic to finally receive an order. You fall asleep and dream of unholy smiles and blood.

When you wake, you’re full of energy.

Your generals are actually stunned when you call them, and it takes you two barked commands before they scramble to meet you at a designated area.

You stand there in full Summoner gear. Your hair has been brushed, your horns have been cleaned, and your wings are spread out for all to see. You feel like punching clowns in the face. Maybe that’s why you decide to disturb the Carnival Gathering.

Every few sweeps or so the church of the mirthful messiahs throws a grand carnival in honor of some weird creepy clown shit that nobody really understands except them. There is drinking, dancing, music, games, and the Final Event.

The Final Event is something akin to death matches, only heavily rigged. High bloods against low bloods, all for sport. Its long and drawn out and odd forms of torture are carried out in a ritualistic manner.

You decide not to give them any victims this sweep.

You assemble your generals and bark out commands; any sign of gathering for the Final Event is to be stopped immediately. If possible, alert you.

They seem eager, and hurry off to rouse up their squadrons.

You grin and take to the skies.

Your body aches, and its only now that the events of your attempted suicide and less-than-helpful pitch-fling decide to make themselves known. Most of it is bearable, but your left shoulder really fucking hurts. You don’t doubt that idiotic clown slept on it on purpose.

You growl and reach into your sylladex, withdrawing a lance you had grabbed earlier from your hive. This time, you were going to do more than just fight.

You get a call about an hour later of a raid on a small cluster of hives near the edge of a forest. You fly there quickly and sure enough, there it is.

The raid is in full swing, complete with arson and splatter paint in the form of warm colored blood. Some of the more fit or odd looking trolls have been shoved into a huddling mess near the outskirts, guarded by two purple bloods. The rest of the trolls are being slaughtered.

One of your generals, a yellow blood, beats you there with her squad of about two dozen very angry trolls.

You sweep down and grin as one teal blood squeaks in alarm and races away.

You heft your lance and meet the furious glare of a blue blood. You smirk, he snarls, you both charge.

He ends up skewed on your lance and you impatiently fling him off, looking around you to see who needs assistance. Your general is doing just fine, using her staff-kind specubus to beat the ever-loving-hell out of another blue blood.

A cerulean steps up the plate, her teeth bared and her eyes blazing fury. She’s not drawing any sort of weapon which instantly alerts you to psychics.

You fling out your own psychics in a powerful wave into the forest; _come, defend, help!_

You can feel her mind start to slip into yours and you snarl and push back. Her sneer widens into an unnerving smile and she _shoves_.

You stagger backwards and then a flash of white darts past your eyes. There’s a scream and the presence is gone, leaving you with a headache and a debt to a very large bark-beast that is currently muzzle deep in her abdomen.

There isn’t much trouble after that. The rest of the raiders run off and you catch a glimpse of a few juggalos which makes you growl deeply in your chest.

Your attention turns to the prisoners and you and your yellow blooded general set about freeing them. They’re awestruck. They keep thanking you and gaping at your horns and wing mutations. One of them even has the gall to ask if he can touch them, and to that you stare him down until he looks away uncomfortably.

You call it a success and fly back to your hive to get some proper rest. Your shoulder hurts like a bitch.

The next few days are more of the same. You stop dozens of raids and gain more followers than you care to admit. Many of them give you the sign of _Him_ as you fly in to free them, and it makes your gut clench in an unpleasant way.

Your numbers are growing and so far only one raid has taken place that you and your generals didn’t detect.

That’s when you know he notices.

_Maybe_ , your mind tells you as you fly into a raid on a much larger cluster of hives than usual, _this was what you secretly wanted._

You knew it was him the second your rust blooded general sent a frantic message about a ‘lunatic clown’ with a ‘crazy fucking grin’ who likes to ‘murder everything on sight’.

You dropped everything and shot out your open window in your haste to get there.

You fly over the cluster of hives first, almost like a town, before descending. You want him to see you. You’re not sure why.

When you land there are cold bloods surrounding you instantly. They rush at you in a frenzy of screams and you wait to the last second before taking to the skies again. They crash into each other and a few of them are wounded.

You laugh and sweep over them, jabbing them with your lance as you go. One of the bastards has a weird sort of hook on a length of chain. He catches your ankle and you go down. Your left shoulder erupts with pain and your left wing was crushed underneath you. It would be fine in a minute, but you weren’t doing it any favors by lying on it.

You leap to your feet and heft your lance, ready to skew the fucker who pulled you out of the sky.

That’s when you see him.

Your blood-pusher does a weird thing that makes your wings flare out and your horns to lower in a challenge.

He’s wearing another pair of those damn polka-dot pants and a shirt that has his blood color across it in stripes.

You both spot each other instantly and you can’t help the massive, sneering grin that spreads across your face.

“Didn’t anybody tell you? Horizontal strips make you look fat. Not that I need stripes to see that.”

His grin makes it look like his face cracked in half, “Think you’re funny, motherfucker? How’s the shoulder healing up?”

You bare your teeth and charge.

He lifts two blood stained clubs and takes a stance.

You rush him and, as his weight shifts to smash you like a bug, you leap into the sky and land on his shoulder, kicking him back and unbalancing him. You whip around, ready to run your lance through his body, when his club comes out of nowhere and knocks it aside.

He’s pivoted on his heel and is in a crouch now, eyes gleaming brightly as he sees you hovering a few feet above him.

“Motherfuck, you can fly.”

“That’s not all I can do,” you swoop down and try to impale him again. He step sides and tries to brain you.

You can’t help but notice how nimble he is on his feet, despite his bulk. You also can’t help but notice he isn’t wearing shoes of any sort.

“Didn’t your lusus teach you how to dress properly?” You snarl at him and he wiggles his eyebrows.

“Sure motherfucker, RIGHT AFTER HE TAUGHT ME HOW TO PAINT WITH YOUR SHIT BLOOD.”

You have no idea how long the two of you fight and banter at each other. Neither of you ever lands a decisive hit, though you know the fucker is aiming for your old injuries.

You change tactics suddenly and slam the tip of your lance against one of his horns as you fly past.

He howls and, to your horror, leaps up after you. His hand catches your arm and the two of you go down in a tumble.

You hear someone screaming as you let go of your lance and punch him as hard as you can in his face.

He digs his claws into your shoulder in return and it’s your turn to shriek as agony jolts through your body. You do the first thing that comes to mind; you head-butt him.

He jerks up with a curse and looks dazed, and you aren’t feeling so hot about it either. Your vision is a little shaky and all you can really focus on is the fact this dumb clown isn’t wearing shoes.

Someone grabs you and hauls you away from Grand Highblood.

You shake yourself clear and see your rust blood general. He’s babbling something about prisoners and retreat and crazy clowns.

You see him getting up and beckoning at you with his clubs. You want to stay. You want to fight and scream and bleed and beat him into the dust and feel his bulge inside of you as you throttle him.

Definitely time to go.

You grab your rust blooded general and take to the skies.

The rest of his squad has evacuated with some of the prisoners and the rest are as good as dead anyway. Time to cut your losses and move on.

You pretend you can’t hear the Grand Highblood mockingly calling after you. You pretend you don’t want to go back.

But you can’t pretend that your shoulder isn’t hurting you. You barely make it half a dozen miles from the raid site before you have to put your general down and rest. He seems slightly stunned at the little ride you gave him, and dreamily asks if flying is always that exhilarating.

You talk with him for a little bit and then he sets off to meet up with his scattered squad at the designated meeting point.

You fly back to your hive and take care of your shoulder.

Dawn is almost five hours away and you find yourself staring out at the sky, your shoulder throbbing numbly from the cream you put on it earlier. You can’t believe you’re thinking about this. You are the leader of an army and, more importantly, he’s your enemy! He’s not The Enemy, but he’s pretty damn close.

You take your lance with you just in case.

The flight feels both shorter and longer, since this time you have to be careful not to let anyone spot you. There would be one hell of an uprising if any troll, cold or warm blooded, saw where you were going. So you stick to the clouds, though you hate flying near them, and hope people mistake you for an oversized cluck-beast or something.

You see his hive towering up above you and notice for the first time the splatters of multicolored blood smeared up the walls of it. It’s all colors, you notice, from the very bottom of the hemospectrum to the almost top. There’s only one color missing, and you doubt the owner of said color would be very compliant about adding her blood to the mural.

You fly to the door you left out of and hover just beside it, wondering if this really was a good idea. Why were you even here? Besides the obvious reason, that is.

You decide to stop being a wriggler and open the fucking window doors.

They’re unlocked, and you figure someone like the Grand Highblood wouldn’t have to worry much about robbers.

You land in his bedroom and look around for him. It strikes you how stupid this is, why would he even be here? It’s not like you called ahead and asked. Still, it annoys you.

You’re in the middle of entertaining the idea of trashing his room when you hear heavy footsteps approaching the door.

Shit, should you hide? Should you be doing something instead of standing there like a meow-beast caught with its paw in the milk? Crap! You don’t know!

The door opens and you barely have time to fix a scowl on his face when he comes stomping in.

He spots you and an incredulous look spreads across his face.

Yeah, you can agree with that. You don’t really know how you’d react if you came home and found him just sort of hanging around your hive.

“You got a lot of nerve, shit blood,” he growls, closing the door with a loud thud.

You roll your eyes, “I’m the fuckin leader of the low blood revolution. Of course I have nerve.”

He grins, like you just said an inside joke only he understood, “Been putting a stop to my motherfucking shopping for the Carnival, motherfucker. That ain’t too nice of you.”

Now you growl, “And I’ll put a stop to the damn Carnival itself if I have to.”

His eyes turn dark and his smile suddenly looks a lot more threatening, “Oh will you, Summoner?”

You bristle suddenly at the name.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you spit.

A look of amusement flashes across his face as he strides over to you, forcing you back until you hit the wall with a little ‘oof!’.

“And what,” he purrs, “should I call you, shit blood?”

“Your Majesty works just fine for me,” you reply dryly, unperturbed by the juggalo leering over you currently.

His face is close to yours, “You fight like a coward, shit blood, jumping away and dancing out of reach.”

“And you fight like a little wriggler who doesn’t want to take a bath,” you snip back, glaring at him as the tension builds between the two of you.

His grin quirks oddly, “Yet you still didn’t save them all. I’ve got a dozen low bloods down in my prison right now who will fucking die slowly and painfully because you couldn’t save them.”

Your grin changes into a sneer and you slap him across the face, “Shut up!”

His snarls and grabs the front of your shirt and, before you can process what’s happening, he’s flung you across the room.

You crash into the wall with a sharp cry and fall to the ground, but when he comes charging at you you fling yourself at his legs and tackle him to the floor. You fight to hold him down, clawing and hissing as he digs his claws into you and tries to bite your throat out. You snarl loudly, teeth bared and eyes blazing as you head-butt him, effectively stunning the both of you temporarily. You don’t even know if this is pitch scuffling or downright fighting and at this point your head is too fuzzy to differentiate between the two.

Your hands find his horns and you remember how he howled when your lance hit them earlier today. Was that a dick move? You don’t know. You rub them anyway, sliding your hands down to the dark red keratin base and massaging them. They’re fucking huge, like yours, and you wonder idly if he has as many problems with putting on shirts as you do.

There’s a low, rumbling sound coming from the juggalo underneath you and you are quick to put a stop to that by digging your nails into his horn bed. He yowls and grabs your wing, yanking you off and shoving you down onto your stomach.

You growl and fight wildly as he straddles you, shoving your face into the ground and holding onto your right wing. You buck and thrash until you feel his hand clench around your fragile joint. Oh god…oh god he’s not going to tear it off, is he? You go perfectly still in horror. No, no please don’t do that. You refuse to beg for him to release you though and instead lie perfectly still underneath him.

“So _this_ is how to get your motherfucking chill on,” he grumbles, tugging gently at your wing which makes you shudder.  “You’re so full of fire, my winged motherfucker.”

“Get your disgusting hands off my wing, Makara!”

He chuckles and moves his hand back to the joint of your wing, holding it firmly and rubbing his thumb where the bone melds into your shoulder.

You make an embarrassing noise at the tingling, warm sensation and quickly try to cover it with a growl. But then you can feel his breath against the back of your neck and you twitch. His teeth were way too fucking close to important arteries for your liking.

“Like I said, you are a little fucking spit-fire,” he says it so quietly you wonder if you were even supposed to hear that. Then he bites the junction where your neck and shoulder meets and you cry out. Your claws scratch frantically at the floor as he presses down against you, so possessive in his actions. It makes you thrill and chirr and growl weakly as he bites down on that place that makes you dizzy.

He’s got you pinned and you both know it. He’s holding onto your wing and all his weight is on you as his hand finds the base of your left horn and he rubs it hard.

“Ah— _fuck!_ ” You groan and spit curses at him, seeping hatred darker than any pitch you’ve known before. He just sucks it all up and goads you further. He’s fucking taunting you and you are playing right along with it. God it feels good.

His hand leaves your horn and slides down your back, claws pricking you through your clothes and you snap at him angrily.

“Don’t you fucking ruin my clothes again you piece of clown shit! I am not stealing your fucking awful shit again!”

“So you did take my clothes. What the fuck gives you the right TO WEAR MY COLORS, MOTHERFUCKER?” He flips you over and pins you down with his hands on your shoulders. Ow, fuck that hurts.

You can’t tell if he’s actually pissed at you or not, so you smirk at him, “What’s the matter? Does it _bother you_ that a shit blood like me wore _purple_? That I wore your fucking shirt, Makara? With your god damn _symbol_ on my chest?”

His murderous glare tells you yes and you throw your head back and laugh. Bad idea.

His teeth are on your throat in an instant and you realize in a split second of terror that this could be it. This is how it ends. The Summoner; killed by a rampaging juggalo for wearing his clothes and then trying to entice him into another pitch session. You fucked up.

His teeth start to close around your throat and as they prick your skin you unintentionally moan very loudly.

You both pause.

Then the fangs are removed and you take a shuddering breath of relief before reaching up and grabbing his horn hard, yanking him down to your face and hissing.

“Get on with it,” you demand, and then bite his lower lip as hard as you can when he tries to kiss you. His bitter cursing and the taste of his blood makes your nerves dance under your skin and you sit up, cutting him off in the middle of an extremely elaborate curse to kiss him fucking properly.

It’s all teeth and biting and fire and his hands are on your grub scars and its making you dizzy. You groan and claw at his back, ripping his shirt and earning a cuff on the horn for it. You manage to get one of your legs over his hip and use it as leverage to shove him on his back.

But he’s not having any of it and easily rolls you over when you try and get on top. Now you’re underneath him and his teeth are on your neck again and you’re moaning for more as his hands are pushing your pants down.

You remember your fight from earlier and leer up at him tauntingly, hateful words ready on your lips to cut him and add gas to the flames. But he’s ready for it and silences you with fingers in your nook, smirking as you arch off the ground and drag your claws down his shoulders and arms. Purple wells up and gets trapped under your claws as you scratch him up deep enough to possibly scar.

Yes, you want to scar him. You want to leave your mark on him.

You bare your fangs at him with a feral snarl and then moan as he presses his thumb between the top of your nook and the base of your bulge. Oh god yes that feels good, fucking useless clown is good for something apparently.

You don’t know when he got the time to take off his pants but suddenly his icy cold bulge is wrapping around yours and the two of you snarl pleasurably and claw at each other.

He grabs you and hauls you up into a standing position, pulling away and making you spout a torrid of protests before he’s shoves you against a wall and presses up flush against you.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” he spits, and you reply with the classic ‘make me’ that awards you his tongue in your mouth.

You growl encouragingly and wrap your arms around his shoulders, digging your nails anywhere you can as he grabs your thighs and lifts you up. You eagerly wrap them around his waist and his body is so cool and firm against yours its making you feel intoxicated. You need something, you need him, you need his bulge and you need it now.

His hands find your grub scars and he teases them as you buck and whine angrily, impatient with all his fucking around. Then you feel something against your nook and you reach up and grab one of his horns.

“I swear to fuck if you don’t give it to me I’ll send you to meet your god damn messia—aaahhh fuck!” You arch off the wall and into his body as his bulge plunges inside of you, filling you up and sending white hot currents of electricity through your blood.

He growls low and deep in his chest, sinking his teeth into your wounded shoulder and shuddering pleasurably.

You shriek and draw lines of purple on his back with your claws in retaliation. Stupid fucking clown you _hate him so god damn much._

His bulge brings your attention back from your seething and you groan as it curls and squirms inside of you, stroking your insides firmly and making you feel like liquid fire. Your own bulge, trapped between your two bodies, looks demandingly for something to wrap itself around. But the friction between the two of you, one hot and one cold, feels almost as good.

He’s growling in your ear now, telling you how fucking weak you are and how he despises you and your shit blood.

You bite out a dark laugh between groans and insult his stupid clown gods.

You’re not done clawing the shit out of each other when you both finish, and the rush of it was so unexpected and fierce that you end up clinging to him as your body shakes and you scream out your orgasm. His arms are around you, crushing you to his chest as his bulge fucks your oversensitive and trembling body. You swear and struggle weakly but can’t help the little whimpers and moans as he fills you up.

You forgot a bucket.

God dammit.

His bulge slips out of you and you halfheartedly growl at him before shoving at him angrily.

“Let me go, stupid clown, you reek of genetic material!”

He scrapes a kiss on your neck, more teeth than lips, “So do you, low blood.”

“Fuckin stop holding me, you giant pansy!” You smack him around the horn bed and he does let go with a low, warning growl that you ignore.

He follows you as you go retrieve your pants, and you bitch at him the entire time which doesn’t seem to bother him.

Your thighs are stained brown and purple. Disgusting. But you are not going to shower with that fucking stupid clown watching you. You yank on your pants and wrinkle your nose. Thank god you don’t have to walk home.

His purple eyes are fixated on you with an expression you can’t quite read. But there’s hatred written there too and that you’re comfortable with.

“Aw, what’s the matter, Makara? Sad to see me go?” You coo mockingly at him and he bristles.

“I can make you stay if I fucking want to, shit blood,” he prowls closer, eyeing you in a way you don’t like.

“Like fuck you can,” you dart for the window and he’s hot on your heels.

You leap, he grabs, and you crow in victory as you soar out the window and he crashes to the ground.

You turn around and see him glaring bloody murder at your from his window doors. You smile and fly just a bit closer.

“By the way,” you say before you can stop yourself, “you can call me Nitram.”

Then you leave before you can do any more stupid things.


	3. Chapter 3

You are the most stupid shit blood to ever live. That is you. You should get an award for being this god damn dumb.

You are fucking your enemy, the troll with zero artistic talent who paints with blood, and you keep going back for more. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve gone to him. He’s begun to appear in more of your battles, his horrid juggalo paint meticulously smeared across his face in a leering grin that makes your blood boil.

After every fight the two of you find one another and he pails you so good and hard it makes your bones feel like rubber. You don’t even have to fly to his hive most of the time. The two of you remain behind, fighting what looks like an epic battle, and once all the other trolls have fled, you both drop the pretenses.

But you don’t fuck around during fighting. You won’t let business get marred by whatever the fuck you have going on with this damn clown. You both try your hardest to kill the other, and once in while someone gets a pretty nasty wound, but death had yet to make an entrance.

Once one of his clubs caught your wing and that night you had screamed at him for an hour about it until he made you scream for a completely different reason. But after that he didn’t aim for your wings as much.

Your army thinks you’re a warrior god. You have fought the Grand Highblood and lived not just once, but countless times. He can’t beat you, he can’t lay a club on you. You are too fast, too fierce, too great.

You think that’s fucking stupid, but you let them glorify it however they want. If it brings up moral, then it’s a good thing.

Things have been suspiciously quiet for the past couple weeks and you’re getting very antsy. There were a few skirmishes earlier but he didn’t show up and you are starting to get annoyed. It was almost an unspoken agreement or something, and he wasn’t living up to his end.

You decide that perhaps a visit is in order. It’s almost the middle of the night and he’s probably busy with whatever suppression bullshit he does for the Empress, so interrupting him would be unwelcomed and unhelpful.

You like that idea.

The flight seems to get shorter every time. Or maybe you fly faster each time.

You arrive at the window doors he always keeps unlocked and waltz into his bedroom like you own the place. It’s empty, no surprise, but you know the general layout of his home. You figured it out through a lot of trial and error and the death of one servant. It was regrettable and you argued for her life, but Makara had a point. Servants gossiped. Seeing the Summoner in the home of the Grand Highblood? Every troll and their lusus would know by next sundown. The olive blood was killed in a quick and painless fashion, on your insistence.

You head out of his room towards his office area. It surprised you that he had as much paper work as he did, but seeing as he practically ran all the military escapades for the Empress, it made sense that he had a lot of work.

You entertain the idea of making all his forms into paper cluck-beasts if he’s not in his office when you arrive just to piss him off. You love it when he’s pissed off. He gets this _look_ and—no, no what are you thinking? Stop it.

You shake your head and open the office door without so much as contemplating knocking. He is in there, sitting at his desk and filling out what looks like an extremely tedious stack of culling forms.

He looks up as you enter and you grin cheekily.

He doesn’t look too thrilled to see you.

“What the ever loving fuck do you think you’re doing here?” He growls, doing that thing with his voice that says you should be cowering in fear when really all it does is make you roll your eyes.

“I’m shopping for real estate,” you say breezily, looking around with feigned interest, “unfortunately, my contractor has the worst possible taste. She took me to a dump site instead of an actual hive. I’m not really surprised to find you here though, seeing as you are literal trash.”

Makara narrows his eyes and slowly stands, “Get the fuck out of my house, Summoner.”

You drop all pretenses and glare, “Fuck off, Highblood.”

He bares his teeth and you get the unsettling feeling that he’s not playing around with you this time, “Get. Out. Or I’ll smear you across the floor.”

You scoff and cross your arms, “Please, you couldn’t catch me even if you wanted to.”

That was the wrong thing to say. There is a blur of movement and suddenly a hand is closing around your throat and you are moving quickly backwards. You gag and stagger as he slams you against a wall, fingers wrapped tight around your neck and his bared fangs inches from your face.

Holy shit, since when could he move that fast?

“I’ve got over four hundred imperial culling forms due by the end of this week, shit blood, on top of all the preparations for the upcoming Carnival which YOU AND YOUR SCUM BLOODED BROTHERS HAVE BEEN FUCKING WITH. I’m not your fucking booty call, you piece of low blooded shit, SO GET OUT OF MY HIVE.”

His eyes are slowly turning orange and ever nerve in your body is telling you to beg for forgiveness and then fly out of there as fast as you possibly can.

“Oh fuck you!”

You never were good at listening to your own advice.

“You think you’re busy?” You sputter at him as indignantly as you possibly can with him choking you, “I have to rally up hundreds of idiotic trolls who don’t know the first fucking thing about warfare and somehow try and get them into shape to stop the raids you and your fucking clowns are pulling on their FAMILIES!”

“It’s your fucking fault that they don’t KNOW THEIR GOD DAMN PLACE!” Makara roars, and you kick him in the stomach to try and get him to let go of you, but he only growls and tightens his grip.

“And what,” you continue heatedly, your vision starting to waver from lack of air, “makes you think you’re a fucking booty call, you pan-rotten clown?”

The silence that descends is thick and awkward.

It is only now you wish you had flown away.

What did you just say? Did you basically insinuate you wanted to…quadrant lock with this fucker?

By the look on his face, it seems you did.

It’s getting hard to breathe, and you helpfully remind him of this by pinching his wrist as hard as you can.

He swears and releases you, though he could have held on much longer if he wanted to. You cough and shoot him a glare before turning on your heel and marching out, horns high and wings stiff. You do everything short of slamming the door behind you, because you have a tiny bit more dignity than that.

The flight home feels like it takes hours and you have no dignity at all.

By the time you land back at your hive, you are one step away from flipping your shit. Why did you say that? Why didn’t you rub it in his face that he was your booty call? He might’ve killed you, sure, but that’s never stopped you in the past. You pride yourself on being an obnoxious shit blood.

You pause in the middle of pacing your hive and your wings flutter anxiously.

Do you…do you hate him like that?

A pitch fling is one thing. But being quadrant locked with the Grand Highblood?

You pause for a second to entertain the facial expressions of your generals before moving on.

You have no idea about if you’re pitch, _really_ pitch, for him. The pailing was great, yeah sure, but a committed quadrant? The last quadrant you had—no. No stop, bad train of thought.

You scowl sourly across the room and your eyes fall on a crumpled heap of black clothing in the corner. You walk over and scoop it up, unfolding the shirt and pants you’d nabbed from the very first time. The shirt is big and the neckline is overly stretched due no doubt to him yanking it over his massive horns. The symbol printed on the front is in his blood color, looping and curving in an almost elegant manner.

It also smells like him.

A flash of heat goes through you the second the sent hits your nose and you quickly drop the clothes. Your cheeks slowly turn brown and you scuff your boot on the floor in annoyance. Yeah, you are pitch for him. But only just a bit!

Problem is you have no idea if he is pitch for you.

You narrow your eyes and snap your wings against your back irritably. Did he think you were his beck-and-call bitch? If he did, he had another thing coming. But if he didn’t, it might explain why he wasn’t in the mood for your shit earlier.

As you mull over the idea something strikes you; how would this effect the war?

You don’t have much interaction with the church or the purple bloods in particular. Your general goal is to somehow usurp the Empress and fulfill the dream of _Him_ to make all trolls equal, regardless of blood color. You cross your arms and chew at your lower lip. You may act like you’ve got it all made, but in reality you’re just one troll with no idea how to topple an Empress, let alone an idea that has been around for sweeps upon sweeps.

Ideas, you find, are almost harder to conquer than actual trolls.

What you’ve done up to this point has been a bunch of glorified raids and a few uprisings. Nothing significant, nothing to stir the masses.

You glare at your boots as your mind furiously works. You had joked with Makara about stopping his Carnival…but what if you actually did? What would that do? Would the cold bloods be somehow discouraged? Or just mildly pissed off as usual? Would that effect your not-quite-sure pitch relationship? Probably.

Wow, you do not think things through very well.

You growl and kick at your desk before heading out to summon your generals for a meeting.

\---

“Stop the Carnival?” The yellow blood finally voices the general shock felt around the table of trolls you’ve gathered.

They’ve all been with you since you began this thing with your back stabbing ex, and now they’re looking at you like they’ve never really seen you before.

“Summoner, with all due respect,” a rust blood says, “you’re fucking crazy. The clowns will be swarming the place, not to mention the Grand Murder Clown himself will be there. Just because you’ve escaped with all your limbs intact before doesn’t mean you will this time.”

“I’m aware of that,” you reply dryly, “but did you ever think of who else might be there?”

When nobody answers your glare at them, “The Empress. She’s gone to the Carnival in the past, why wouldn’t she this sweep?”

They look at each other uneasily and you know you don’t have them hooked just yet.

“Listen,” you stress, leaning closer to all of them like you’re sharing a big secret, “all we’ve done up to now is stop a mini-pirate empire of blue bloods and save some trolls from raids. We’ve amassed quite a following, thanks to…the Sufferer.”

You hold back your distaste as all the trolls at the table bow their heads in respect and murmur His name.

“We need to get the ball rolling. Why not crash the party? Nobody has ever done it before. It’ll draw us some attention and maybe we can move on to what we are really here for, or did all of you forget?”

“Saving trolls—” one of your generals begins, but you cut her off.

“Saving trolls isn’t why we are here!” You don’t mean to snap, but it comes out harsh anyway you say it. “We are here because of an idea! What did the—uh, what did He say? Come on, you know the words.”

There is a long moment of silence.

“From where I stand, I see a circle…” the yellow blood general finally whispers, her eyes bright, “I see a world where all trolls are held equal to each other, and none is higher than the rest…”

“Yes,” you nod and clench your fists, “that is why we are here. Not to stop raids or save lives, but to finish what He started. It starts with the Carnival. The… Grand Highblood will be there, and we need to take him out. But our top priority will always be the Empress. With her gone and someone new on the throne, we can finally achieve our goal.”

They are looking at you in a way you hate, eyes bright and full of passion like you are Him born unto the world again.

They leave to take the message to all in your following, and you return to your hive feeling like a great weight slid onto your shoulders with only a few sentences.

You think you might have bitten off more than you can chew.     

 


	4. Chapter 4

The Carnival is in full swing by the time you and your little uprising is ready. You’ve never been to one before on account of you being low blood scum, but you have to grudgingly admit it looks impressive.

There are massive tents made from multiple colors of fabric set up in a giant circle with streamers and lights hanging from every available surface. The tents are not quite as tacky as you had hoped. The ground is firm and the grass had been trimmed down earlier for the occasion. The main entrance is a massive archway made of bones woven together by some sort of thick, purple rope. Everything smells like blood and fried grubs and you decide that you’d be crashing this party anyway, revolution or not, just to save people from looking at this eyesore.

Your yellow blooded general makes a gesture and you frown. More high bloods are arriving and it’s making you antsy. There are already a couple hundred in there, and the minor tents forming the outside of the circle are big enough for both you and your maybe-kismesis to fit comfortably inside. The inner rings are much larger, creating a pyramid effect of color. The base, naturally, primarily warm colors while the very top, flag waving in the breeze, is the color of the dried blood you pick out from under your claws in the morning.

The purpose of this mission isn’t to kill, but to disrupt. You aren’t aiming for a massacre, but you know the second you and your people emerge from your hiding place among the trees that every single cold blood will be up in arms. It has to be quick. Invade, destroy a lot of shit, maybe grab a hunted low blood, and…and maybe try to attack the Empress, if she’s here. You pray to every god you can think of for her to be here, because if she’s not then you’re going to have to focus on the next best thing. You don’t think he would take very kindly to that either.

Well, it’s now or never. The less high bloods there are the better.

You stand up straight and feel an old fog begin to nudge at the back of your mind. How many will die because of this? How many will lose a quadrant? How many will never be the same?

You shake it off and give the signal.

You take to the skies and watch as your rebellion surges forwards out of the trees, whooping and screaming like the deranged clowns themselves. Silence would have been better, but at least this gets their blood pumping. You fly over them, intending to strike at the heart of the Carnival while the others rush it from the sides. You have eight generals and each general is in charge of a dozen or so trolls. You have about one hundred trolls against god knows what inside.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize how bad an idea this was.

They barely hit the first ring of tents when the screaming starts. It seems the cold bloods are being careful this sweep and posted a ring of guards around the first set of tents. Your rebellion crashes into drawn weapons and gnashing fangs. As they fight their way through the first ring, tearing down everything in their path, you swoop over the colorful array of fabric and head for the flag.

The center is the largest tent of all and you know what is waiting for you in there. The Final Event is taking place. You can tell by the hollering and cheering from the crowd. Going in by yourself is an idiotic move, but there was nobody else who could easily get to the center without wings.

You decide not to be subtle and barge straight in.

The inside is enormous, housing seating for at least a hundred high bloods. The stands rise up the blood splattered walls, looking down into a pit where the games take place. At the center, the farthest point from you, there are two thrones.

One is large and curving with gold and a hot pink symbol chiseled into the back. The other is lower but bigger, splashed with blood and adorned with trophies from some of the more ‘amusing’ victims.

Only one of the thrones is occupied, and you feel your blood pusher sink into your stomach.

In the pit, an olive blood is edging away warily from a massive purple blood. The purple blood is armed with an odd weapon, some sort of scythe connected by a chain to a heavy looking ball. He wields it easily, alternating between slashing with the scythe and trying to brain his opponent with the ball. She has a short dagger in her hand and the side of her face is bloody from a previous hit. Her eyes are unfocused and it’s clear she won’t last much longer.

In fact, you barely take a step farther inside before the purple blood’s scythe darts out and catches her neck. There is a soft, wet ripping sound and she crumbles to the ground silently.

The high bloods in the stands cheer and stomp their feet, and the purple blood grins and bows before walking off to join them in the stands.

Anyone can participate in the Final Event.

Even the Grand Highblood.

He sees you the second you walk in but doesn’t say anything. The others are too focused on the pit to notice you at first, but one at a time they realize they have company.

Weapons are drawn and the tent quiets down. They are awaiting orders, since they are guests here in his god damn awful Carnival.

Then he smiles, and you know for certain that he had been expecting you.

“Brothers and sisters,” he stands up slowly, his voice rumbling through the tent with an almost amused tone, “no need to get all fucking worked up over one little shit blood.”

His smile turns to you and you meet his gaze square on with a glare of your own. The screaming from outside is getting louder and you need to go, to retreat, before you lose everything.

“I purpose,” he continues, softly, like this idea just came to him, “a much more motherfucking amusing game. Myself, against the shit blood.”

The tension in the air sparks and everyone is looking at everyone else trying to figure out if this was just some extremely well thought out addition to the Final Event or some bullshit pulled out of a clown’s ass at the last second. Either way, it had a lot of promise.

You bristle and square your shoulders, opening your mouth to tell him where he can shove that proposition.

“And,” he barks out, interrupting you before you could even get a single word out, “here are the motherfucking stakes. If he wins, all the low bloods including himself go free.”

There is a lot of booing and hissing at that.

“And if you win?” You ask, coldly.

His smile is practically poison, “You become my slave for the rest of your short, miserable lifespan.”

Everyone is silent again, eyes narrowed and eager to see your response. You quickly try and consider your options, but leaving the tent is starting to look impossible. There are guards behind you, blue bloods, who look like they are itching to put an arrow between your wings.

“First,” you say, “my army leaves. Then we fight.”

“No deal, shit blood,” he sneers and draws his club, “they aren’t part of the motherfucking party. Uninvited scum bloods need to learn their place.”

Your heart beat quickens. The screaming outside is louder than ever and you can hear crashing and breaking from people psionics being unleashed too quickly and with too much desperation. Your generals knew when to retreat, but they wouldn’t leave you behind. You needed to win this fast.

“Fine,” you spit, taking out your lance and baring your teeth.

The high bloods in the stand shout their approval and you snarl at them wordlessly. They jeer back at you and get settled back in their seats as the Grand Highblood leaps into the pit.

You follow and grimace as someone drags the dead olive blood away.

You lock eyes with him and growl quietly. He tricked you without even putting in the effort to. He knew you would come to fuck up his Carnival, so he merely made plans around it. You were an idiot, and now because of you trolls are dying.

He isn’t attacking yet, just circling around lazily and watching you with cold, calculating eyes.

You can’t afford to wait, but this time you’re not just leaping blindly into it. He knows you are on a clock, he knows you want to finish this as fast as possible. He and you both know you are going to have to attack first.

You do, leaping forward and thrusting your lance at him, intending to impale him right through the ribs. He neatly step sides away from it and sweeps his club around to catch you in the spine and put you in a four wheeled device for life.

You won’t let him give you that humiliation and you roll your body around it gracefully.

He counterattacks almost instantly, forcing you into tight quarters where using your lance is impossible. So you swing your head to the side and catch him right in the face with the side of your horn. There’s a sharp crack and you both swear and back away from each other.

The crowd is hissing and spitting insults at you as you ignore the throbbing on your left horn. His nose is bloody, maybe broken, and he doesn’t react beyond swiping some blood off his lips.

There is a thunderous crash outside and the crowd’s attention flickers for a brief moment. He uses the distraction to his advantage and goes on offensive, forcing you back with swings of his club and clever footwork.

You narrow your eyes and return with a series of swift, jabbing motions, all of which he avoids. You’re being backed into a corner now, and you need space to maneuver. You open up your wings and lung at him, forcing him back a step to avoid being skewered, and then take to the air.

You alight behind him and ram the lance towards his back, intending on impaling him from behind. He barely manages to turn and the tip of your lance catches the back of his shirt. It rips and his back is now an exposed map of scars. But his cold blood genes are what is protecting him, not a shirt, and his hide is untouched. Your lance will do the trick though, you designed it for that specific purpose, and your claws and teeth have already made marks on him before.

He rolls his weight to his right foot and that’s all the warning you have before he’s swinging his left up and kicking your lance out to the side, effectively exposing your torso. His foot lands and he uses it to springboard off of and send himself hurling towards your exposed middle, claws first.

You go down in a heap and you screech as his teeth find your right shoulder and bite down hard. You tear at his body with your claws and snap at his neck as he tries to get a hold of your throat. His hands are moving behind you to grab your wings and you know for certain that if he does that, you’re finished.

“ _SUMMONER!”_

Suddenly the Grand Highblood is being thrown off you and you scramble up to your feet in shock. Standing at the entrance to the tent is your yellow blooded general, psionics cackling.

The guards are lying dead behind her, broken and bleeding from whatever she did to them. But now she is trapped in a tent with a horde of angry high bloods and the Grand fucking Highblood himself.

The Grand Highblood is already picking himself up, his eyes fading slightly into orange as he spots your general running towards you. He makes a gesture.

You see about two dozen high bloods leap from their seats and swarm her. You scream and bolt towards her, but something crashes into you from behind and pins you into the dirt.

“ _Dirty cheating low blood scum,”_ he hisses in your ear, fingers around your throat and claws pricking at your neck as he forces your head up, “ _watch.”_

You struggle and howl as you see them easily over take her. You see her try to protect herself with her psionics only to have a spear shoved through her belly. She coughs up yellow blood, looks up at you, and then is swiftly torn apart by the high bloods. She only screams once.

“You _bastard_ ,” you have never felt such a fury before in your life.

“I told you, motherfucker,” he says softly, “don’t try and mess with the Carnival.”

Your vision goes red and you twist yourself around, ignoring the bloody lines his claws scratch into your throat. You don’t know the look you give him, but your rage must have shown on your face because he only has a moment of surprise before you sink your teeth into his neck.

You miss the artery, you know that the second you bite into him. You don’t care. You hold on and bite harder as he snarls and shreds your back and tries to tear at your wings. But since you are underneath him you are at an advantage; your wings are safely pinned under your body.

You release his neck and kick him off you. He doesn’t go far and instantly raises his clubs for the kill. You don’t give him that chance. You summersault backwards into a crouch and then take off into the air. You tear through the roof of the tent and bellow as loudly as you can for a full retreat. Anyone who is still alive, _run._

Arrows are being shot at you and one goes through your lower right wing. You scream as the fragile tissue is ripped but stay in the air, directing your survivors as more arrows fly towards you.

From the hundred or so that went in, only thirty come out.

You lead them far into the woods, using your own telepathic skills to make the creatures in the forest aid you and hinder your hunters. You all run for hours, and many of you fall and can’t rise again. Some are carried, others are left.

You have never hated yourself more.


	5. Chapter 5

You can’t fly for at least a week to let your wing heal. You have bruising all over your body and your lips and chin are stained with purple blood. There is an ache inside of you that goes deeper than any injury. Moving hurts. Thinking hurts. When you sleep, all you can hear is screaming.

You little uprising sparked something in trolls of the lower bloods. You’ve been getting constant messages from your remaining generals of numerous new followers. They are awaiting your instruction.

It’s been only two nights since the attack, you think, and you haven’t cleaned yourself, haven’t moved farther than the necessary amount to take care of your wing.

There is some purple blood on your left horn and you’ve been picking it out from under your claws all day.

More messages come, more followers, more asking for advice.

You haven’t left the corner of your sleeping block for those entire two nights. You just sit there and try to wrap the returning fog so thickly around yourself that, if you are very lucky, you might suffocate.

But you are never lucky.

Fate must hate you, though you are not sure what you did to deserve it. You are only further convinced of this when the door to your hive busts open.

You are in your sleeping block still, so you can’t see what or who it is. But guessing by the rude entrance, it is not any of your followers. So either the high bloods have found your hive and are here to execute you, or someone is here for a highly unwelcomed visit.

“MotherFUCKER!”

Yeah, you assumed as much.

He is standing in your doorway and looking at you like something the lusus dragged in.

“Get out of my hive,” you say blandly.

His eyes are orange and you wonder idly whether he has a moirail or not.

“What the ever loving fuck do you think you are doing,” he growls, and his voice is tight and controlled.

“I dunno, sitting? Are you so fucking stupid you can’t even see that?” Your jib is weak even to your ears, but it feels good to snap at someone.

Someone who killed your best and oldest general.

Someone who knew what was going to happen and allowed so many of your followers to get killed.

Someone who played your spades like a fucking fool.

“Why are you here?” You voice comes out bitter and sharp as the fog starts to clear away.

He strides towards you, teeth bared, and grabs the front of your shirt. He hauls you upright and ignores your noise of pain, “You have been FUCKING MISSING FOR ALMOST A WEEK, STUPID SHIT BLOOD.”

A week? You could have sworn it was only two days.

“Why are you even here?” You glare at him as your feet dangle a couple inches off the floor. Your wing still hurts and you realize you seriously need to change the bandages.

“I’m here, you scum blood, to answer your god damn half-assed question.” He spits, like it’s the most obvious reason in the world and you’re an idiot for not knowing it.

“My question?”

“Barely a fuckin’ question if you ask me,” he grumbles, shifting his weight.

“Out with it, clown,” you growl.

“About quadrant locking,” he adds, looking a little irritated and…flustered?

But right now all you can do is gape at him in shock, “You come here, to my hive, after…after that thing, and propose to _quadrant lock_?”

“It was your motherfucking proposition,” he grumbles, “I’m just answering you back, shit blood.”

“YOU KILLED HER!” You don’t realize you’re screaming until his ears pin back in alarm.

“Who?”

“My best _general._ You killed her and you come here asking if, if, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” You lash out at him with a violent rage that is purely void of pitch.

He snarls and grabs you by the throat, slamming you against the wall and aggravating your injuries. You cry out in pain and struggle to reach him, fangs snapping as you thrash against his grip on your throat.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he snarls at you, “I was in the same god damn pit as you were, shit blood!”

“You _know what I mean_ —” you begin to roar but he tightens his hold and your air is cut off abruptly.

“You listen here and you listen good, Summoner,” his growl is low and dark and urgent.

You bristle at the title.

“I didn’t kill a single one of those motherfuckers. My hands are fucking clean. And if you think otherwise, well then brother, your hands are JUST AS DIRTY WITH THE BLOOD OF MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS.”

You stop struggling and gape at him.

“Your fucking dirty blooded rebellion killed trolls with far grander blood than you. Trolls who I have known since their GOD DAMN PUPATION. And now they are dead. DEAD AND GETTING THEIR TICKETS STAMPED IN THE DARK CARNIVAL.”

You wheeze in an attempt to ask what the ever loving fuck he’s saying.

He frowns at you and orange ebbs from his eyes. He looks tired, all of a sudden, and he lets you drop to your feet. His hand remains around your neck though, loose, his fingers gently rubbing over an artery.  

“This is war, Nitram,” he says quietly, and you stare at him like you’ve never actually seen him before, “you can’t all up and let your personal feelings get in the way. If you are attached, then every motherfucking death is gonna kill a piece of your blood pusher. And bit by bit, you’ll soon find yourself a motherfucking empty shell. Personal life and politics don’t go together.”

“Personal life,” you echo weakly.

“They ain’t your motherfuckin’ friends, shit blood.” He pinches the side of your neck and you glare at him reflexively. He chuckles and your scowl deepens. “That’s what happened to the first motherfucker who started this shit up. Little heretic with his blasphemous blood. He cared too motherfucking much. Got personal. And look what all up and happened to him.”

Though you sure as hell won’t tell him, he does have a point.  

“Now, about your motherfucking question.” He’s grinning at you, all fangs and wicked intentions.

“Got an answer for me then, Makara?” You arch your eyebrows in that condescending way you know gets under his skin.

“Here’s your fucking answer, shit blood.”

His lips are rough and demanding and they’re the most deliciously disgusting thing you’ve ever tasted. You don’t bother holding back and instead bite down on his lower lip with an eager groan before shoving your tongue inside his mouth. He responds by slamming you back against the wall and pushing his thigh between your legs, pressing it up against your nook and sheath.

He’s peeling away the dead layers of your mind and dragging his claws down the tender, new flesh underneath. The guilt and the anxiety are slowly dripping off your body and forming an acidic puddle at your feet as he meticulously removes the rust from your gears. You despise him for healing you. Again.

Your hands are everywhere on him, finding his grub scars and the unformed indentations on his neck that might have been gills had he more seadweller blood in him. These are wonderfully sensitive and you dedicate some time to teasing and scratching them until he bites you in annoyance.

You don’t know when you got so eager but his scent is driving you into a frenzy and his hands burn like they’re covered in the worst sins and god you love every second of it. You yank his shirt off and pull him closer to you, growling low and deep in your chest as you drag your claws over his shoulder blades. He responds by nipping one of your ears which hurts like a bitch.

You hiss and he laughs.

His hands are on your hips, claws digging in too deep and drawing little beads of blood which he tenderly smears along your gray skin.

Your hands are working on his pants as he opens up your shirt with a quick rip. You snarl at him for ruining yet another one of your shirts, only to get a leer in return. His hands slide around your back and find your wings, gripping the joints right where they meld into your shoulders and you keen and shake all over.

He doesn’t notice your own hands wandering, too intent on forcing you into a burning submission. His lips are on the base of your horn and your insides go fuzzy instantly. You snarl weakly in warning, struggling, but he responds with a nip at the base which makes you howl.

He’s dragging you both down, turning so you end up on his lap. Your back is against his chest and he’s got your legs spread without any encouragement. He rumbles low in his chest, amused, and then begins rubbing you through your pants.

It’s so god awfully slow and firm its driving you insane. You can’t be damned to fight back, all you want right now is a good hard fuck, but you know he’s not gonna give it to you that easily. Instead you sink your claws into his thighs and snarl threats at him until he silences you with a warning bite to your horn base.

His fingers press on the lips of your nook from outside your pants and you moan weakly. His other arm is wrapped around your chest, hand almost gentle around your neck, keeping you pressed up against him. You can feel his bulge against your ass, squirming free and looking for something to latch onto. His pants are far down enough for you to feel it against your lower back.

His fingers are teasing the rim of your own pants and you growl, straining against him. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder and you shudder, cursing him and his clown religion until he snarls at you.

Then he pushes your pants down to your ankles and playfully spreads your nook, making you keen and shudder and gasp at the feeling of it. His fingers are so cold but god damn.

Your own hands are free, and you take advantage of this to reach around behind you and give him a good scratch for teasing you.

“Watch it, Nitram,” he growls, and you flap your wings in his face as best you can.

He doesn’t warn you before two of his fingers enter your nook and you snarl because fingers don’t fucking belong up there and _ow_ his claws hurt. You snarl and moan as he finger fucks you, careful not to tear you up too bad inside. Your own bulge reaches down to wrap around his wrist, twisting and curling and making you feel electric inside.

You can feel his bulge begin to slip down underneath you, teasing the edges of your nook as he slips his fingers out. But you aren’t about to let him just take you however he likes. You reach down underneath you and slide your fingers past his bulge and tap the tips of your claws on his nook.

The reaction is instantaneous. He groans into your hair and you feel a surge of heat in your nook that leaves you breathless. You twist around in his arms and sink your teeth into the side of his neck, moaning as he snarls and starts to fight you off. Then your fingers stroke the length of his nook and his entire body shudders. God yes.

But two can play that game, and he wastes no time reminding you of that. His bulge pushes into your nook without a warning and you choke on a moan as the burning stretching feeling fills you up. His hands are on your wings, rubbing and pressing the tips of his claws into the joints to make you cry out sharply.

Your own fingers are buried in his cold, wet nook, fucking him sinfully slowly as his bulge treats you with no mercy. It’s so good, and you spread your legs wider on his lap as he bites down into your shoulder to stop his moans.

He’s swearing at you to get your fingers out of him and you snicker and add another. You hiss in his ear about how you’d like to fuck him one day because you know the very thought makes him livid. His response is to yank on your wings and thrash his bulge around inside of you until your voice his hoarse from screaming.

It’s getting to be too much, and your free hand finds one of his horns to grab and yank his head back with. You bite down on his throat and growl at him for more, harder.

He only slows down and you bare your teeth at him, flexing your fingers inside his nook to see him shiver.

“What’s wrong, Makara? Can’t fuck a low blood good a proper?”

His grin is like a knife, “Don’t wanna break my new toy.”

Then his bulge rubs you deep inside and you cry out, arching your back as your body begins to coil deep down inside. He sneers and does it again, watching you come apart in his hands. He’s hissing things at you, words you can’t hear or understand. He’s taken your fingers out of his nook and pushes you back and off of him onto the floor.

You open your mouth to howl at him for taking his bulge out when you were so close, but then he’s on top of you and you can’t speak. He’s got your legs spread and his bulge rammed inside of you and his teeth are on your neck and it’s all your can do to claw at his back and scream his name.

You come first and your nook spasms and clenches around his bulge, earning a wonderfully horrendous noise from him that makes you whimper in response. His own icy slurry fills you up afterwards, and you make a quiet noise of disgust.

“Off, dammit, you’re too fat,” you grumble weakly, smacking at him when he makes no move to get off you.

“Make me,” he growls back, and then tweaks your horns which makes you whine.

You finally bitch at him enough to get him to at least roll off you, but you know he won’t leave until he’s good and ready.

You get up and grimace at how shaky your legs are. Spreading your wings for balance, you limp out of the room to go clean up. As you pass by your desk, a piece of paper catches your eye. You pick it up and frown, studying it solemnly. His words run through your mind suddenly;

_“This is war, Nitram. You can’t all up and let your personal feelings get in the way. If you are attached, then every motherfucking death is gonna kill a piece of your blood pusher. And bit by bit, you’ll soon find yourself a motherfucking empty shell. Personal life and politics don’t go together.”_

You tear up the letter and toss the pieces in the trash can.

When you arrive back in your sleeping block, the bastard has actually had the audacity to take over your ‘coon.

You stare at him for a good long minute, and then at his discarded clothes on the floor. You smirk and pick them up, along with the ones you first stole, and hide them away somewhere deep in your hive where he won’t find them.

When he wakes up, he’ll need clothes for the trek home. The only clothes available with be yours. You wonder if the shame of wearing the clothes with a low blood’s symbol on them would out weight the shame of walking back to one’s hive while completely naked. You snicker to yourself and go to sleep on the couch, smacking his horns are you walk by.

“Pitch for you, you disaster of a clown.”


End file.
